Under the Gun

by Hannah Jayne

  “How many?”

  Alex shifted his burger to one hand and wrapped his free fingers into an O-shape.

  “Zero?”

  “Nada. None.”

  “That you’ve found,” I clarified.

  “That have panned out to be actual acts of true Satanic ritual or Satanism. Generally, it’s stupid kids or your everyday socio-slash-psychopath.”

  “I don’t know if that’s supposed to make me feel better or worse.”

  Alex shrugged and stuffed a Sophie-worthy handful of fries in his mouth.

  “So, you’ve got no leads.”

  Alex rubbed his palm over his forehead, raked his fingers through his dark curls. “That’s the thing, Lawson. I looked—I really did—but nothing matched up to anything in the system. There were no prints, which means that our perp was careful or DNA-aware.” Alex glanced up at me, the statement in his eyes.

  “Or didn’t have prints—or standard DNA.”

  He nodded, his mouth contorted in that false, “sorry to have to point it out” kind of way.

  “I’m not entirely sure that whoever did this was normal.” His eyes set on mine again and this time, the accusation seemed to burn into them. The weight of my secret—and my guilt—sucked all the air out of the room.

  I needed to tear my eyes from Alex’s, so I chanced a glance at the whiteboard, my stomach protesting with a nauseous wave when I did.

  “Are there any pictures of your vic?”

  I shook my head. “Of course not.”

  “Oh,” Alex said, “right—because they turn to dust, right?”

  “Uh, no, Buffy, they don’t turn into dust. No film. Can’t be seen on film whether or not they’re dead or . . . dead again.”

  “That’s a problem.”

  There was a beat of awkward silence. Alex popped the last of his burger into his mouth and downed a mouthful of fries. I pulled the files closer to me, cutting the stack in half and pushing those toward Alex. “We should probably get to work on this,” I said. “We have a lot of files to go through.”

  Alex paused, his eyes going soft.

  “What?”

  “You’re really tightly wound right now.”

  “Of course I am, Alex. There’s a psycho killer on the loose ready to Filet-O-Fish his next vic.”

  “We’re never going to make any headway with you in this state.”

  I gritted my teeth, anger surging through my already tightened muscles. “With me in this state?”

  Alex held up his hands placatingly. “I’m sorry; I don’t mean to offend you. I just think you need to relax a little bit. Do a little stress release before we get started.”

  I crossed my arms and leaned back in my chair, scrutinizing the hard set of Alex’s jaw. “And I suppose you know exactly what I need to relax.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “I have a few ideas.”

  I heard Alex’s shirt rustle as he slipped out of it. It didn’t take long for my eyes to adjust to the low lights, but once they did I felt my jaw clench and did my best to unlatch my eyes from the white T-shirt that clung to his every hard curve. It hugged his chest; the flimsy fabric pulled mercilessly over each stair-step abdominal muscle, straining over his biceps, just exposing the lickable feathers of his winged tattoo. I felt my mouth start to water again, felt my palms go from dry confidence to schoolgirl sweaty.

  He said this would relax me, but suddenly my every muscle fiber was on high alert, every synapse firing to embrace every sound, the smell of heat and fire that clung to the air between us. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, managing to channel a sense of calm—that flitted right out the window when I heard the snapping of his belt.

  My eyes flew open and Alex’s were intent on mine. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  I nodded, not trusting my own voice. Then, finally, “Stress release.”

  “As long as you’re sure. I mean, this is what relaxes me. . . .”

  I forced a smile that I hoped looked as calm and collected as I didn’t feel. “Me, too.”

  Now it was his turn to smile and something about the relaxed, almost sleepy grin that he shot me made the tension start to loosen. “A girl like you?” he said, “I have a hard time believing that.”

  “You don’t know everything about me, Alex Grace.”

  I liked the sexy, smoky tone of my voice and Alex seemed to, too. He came closer to me, extended a hand. “As long as you’re sure.”

  I licked my paper-dry lips and stared at his hand, my stomach seizing. I took it, finally trusting, and laced my fingers through his. The immediate sense of comfort washed over me; that sweet feeling of home set in.

  “Yeah,” I whispered.

  Alex pulled me close to him. He let my hand go and it fell limply to my side, the singe of his touch turning my hand suddenly icy cold. I felt his breath, moist and hot on my ear, as his lips trailed through my hair, his fingers tangling in it, brushing it aside. I leaned into him, and after all the gentle motion, his hands were suddenly firm on me, sure. He turned me quickly, with so much need that gooseflesh covered every inch of my skin, exposed and not, and I felt my breath rising, then catching in my throat. His chest pressed against me and my back immediately arched, my rump pressing against him, heat searing every inch of me. I knew my blush was evident and obvious and it made me want to hide—but the feel of his body against mine was magnetic and I feared I couldn’t move, even if I really wanted to—which I didn’t.

  His heart beat in a steady, dizzying rhythm against my shoulder blade as his palms traced their way down my arms.

  “As long as you’re sure . . .” Alex whispered. His voice was so calm, yet so authoritative. The whole situation was overwhelming, the emotion buzzing all around me, the air electric. I started to tremble—a tiny, delicious tremor that Alex must have taken as a sign because he pulled me even tighter against him until I could feel his belt buckle at the small of my back.

  I nodded mutely. Then, “I’m sure.”

  I felt his hands move. I felt him take a step away from me—disappointing, even though the step was minuscule. The sudden air between us was cold. Then suddenly he was against me once more, one hand wrapping me against him, the other at my hip.

  “Touch it,” he said, his voice a heart-stopping rasp. “Hold it in your hand.”

  I tried to spin, to protest, but he held me firm so I couldn’t look at him. “I—I don’t think I can.” I knew I sounded weak and immature and schoolgirl silly. I felt him nod behind me.

  “You can.”

  All at once his hand was on mine, fingers interlacing, gently positioning me. I cupped my hand to receive him as sweet anxiety filled my every pore.

  “It’s bigger than I remember,” I said, my voice a throaty whisper now.

  I licked my lips again and Alex pressed forward, the soft stubble on his chin rubbing against my temple. I felt his lips press up into a satisfied smile. “That’s good. That’s right. Do you like it?”

  I tried to nod, to give some indication that I was here, invested in the moment, but everything felt rooted to this one spot.

  I was Sophie Lawson.

  And as usual, I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.

  “I can hear your heartbeat,” Alex murmured. “Don’t be nervous. I know this isn’t your first time.” There was a hint of mischief in Alex’s voice and I smiled. “It’s okay, Lawson,” he said.

  I closed my eyes and let Alex’s voice slip through me. I let it warm me from tip to tail, let it give me strength. And then I used my hand to push his away, repositioning mine.

  “Are you sure you’re ready for that?” Alex rasped.

  “Are you sure you are?” I drawled, looking over my shoulder.

  Another sexy half smile. Another glinting tweak in those bedroomy, cobalt eyes. “You should be wearing safety goggles.”

  “Right.” I masked my juvenile need to giggle uncontrollably. “Safety first.”

  I felt Alex gently push his leg in between mine and
I widened my stance.

  “Both hands,” Alex said. “Arms up.”

  I did as I was told, snaking my other hand over Alex’s piece. It felt heavy in my hands but alive, electric.

  “I forgot how much I missed this. I was really scared the first time but now—”

  “Shhh.” Alex’s hands trailed down my arms until his were outstretched, too, his hands clasped over mine. “You’re a natural. Remember what we talked about. Slow . . .”

  “No jerking.”

  “Right. Give it a gentle squeeze.”

  Alex must have sensed my anxiety because he squeezed my hands and whispered, “Gentle,” in my ear. It sent shivers down my spine.

  “Okay.” I felt the weight in my hands. I felt his hands, warm, on mine. I squeezed—gently, slowly.

  This was going to be okay.

  I was going to be good at this.

  It seemed to fire in waves. Molten sparks that shot through my body. There was moaning. There was screaming.

  There was me, huddled on the ground, crying. “Aughhhh,” I wailed. “I can’t do this! I suck!”

  Alex crouched down in front of me, his smile so wide it pushed up to his earlobes. His body was shaking and his eyes were glassy, rimmed in moisture. “No, Lawson,” he fought off a round of guffaws. “You’re a bad shot now, but you’ll get the hang of it. I promise.”

  “Go ahead!” I moaned. “Laugh at me. I know you want to.”

  I had barely finished my permissive sentence when Alex flopped onto his butt and howled like a country bear, smacking at the ground. I crossed my arms in front of my chest, anger creeping into my soul. “It wasn’t that bad for a second time!”

  Alex wiped his eye, sitting up and gasping for air.

  “I bet I even hit the target this time. Maybe not on his body, but I’m sure I hit the paper.” I sprang to my feet and fiddled with the lever that zipped the paper target toward me. I examined it with narrowed eyes.

  “Well?” Alex asked, brushing off the seat of his pants and standing behind me.

  I mashed the lever back. “It was there.”

  “Really?” He yanked on the lever from the target in the next booth over. “You sure it wasn’t here?”

  “Well, I said I knew I hit the target, right? I just didn’t specify which target.”

  “Smooth.” He raised his eyebrows. “Try it again?”

  “Maybe firearms really aren’t my forte.”

  Alex was already curling me into him. “All the more reason for you to go again. You can only get lucky with ass shots so often.”

  I turned, my face reddening. “You knew about that?”

  That sexy half smile again. “A hot chick doesn’t shoot a complete lunatic in the ass without the entire force hearing about it.”

  I felt oddly proud—both because my ass shot to Roland Townsend had made me a legend, and because as Alex curled me into him for the second time in ten minutes, I didn’t pool into jelly. Completely.

  I shot off a few more rounds and little by little—little by very little—my aim was improving. By the time I had cleared about a dozen, Alex was sitting on the cement bench behind me, popping peanut M&M’s into his mouth. I turned and looked at him over my shoulder.

  “Some teacher,” I harrumphed.

  “You’re doing great. You went from hitting the ground to hitting the ceiling to hitting someone else’s target to—” He stood up, squinted, and then nodded, impressed. “Hitting your own target.”

  “While you sit there eating chocolate.”

  “If you must know”—he popped a handful in his mouth—“I’ve been keeping an eye on your form.”

  The slant to his smile was nothing short of shameless and the heat that had zipped through my body now pooled low in my belly—and lower into my panties. “Well, how is it?”

  Alex quirked an eyebrow. “How’s what?”

  I dropped the magazine from my gun, feeling its heat on my palm. Something about handling that thing made me feel bold, confident—dangerous. I looked at him through lowered lashes, snaked my tongue over my tooth sexily like I had seen Nina do a thousand times. “My form.”

  It was fleeting—but definite. Red shot across Alex’s cheeks and his usual cool demeanor was challenged. He quickly regained control, put both booted feet on the floor, and strode toward me. “Let me help you with that.”

  “I can do it.”

  Alex stopped short of me, arms crossed in front of his chest, trademark half smile cutting up the left side of his cheek. “You sure?”

  I was fumbling now but desperately trying to hold my cool. Sexy women who said lascivious things like “how’s my form?” didn’t look half as sexy trying to jam bullets into an empty magazine. “I can get it.” As if on cue, the bullets popped out of the spring load and littered the cement floor.

  Alex grinned but didn’t say anything. He just stepped toward me, his hands going for the extra ammo on the counter behind me. My hands were at my sides, one holding the empty magazine, one holding the unloaded gun. Alex’s arms caged me and now I stared at his chest, smelled the faint odor of singed gunpowder and perspiration. I didn’t think about snaking my arms around his waist, sliding my weaponed hands up his muscled back and pressing my lips against his.

  I just did it.

  I heard the ping of the bullets as Alex brushed them aside, crushing my body up against his. He pulled me against him and I fought to get closer, to close every bit of space between us. His arms wrapped around me, fingers tangling in my hair. I was kissing him and he was kissing me back—hard, hungry kisses. I nibbled his bottom lip, felt his tongue moving into my mouth as he picked me up and set me back on the cement divider, spreading my legs and pressing himself closer. I locked my legs behind his back and pulled him toward me. When his lips left mine and started a trail down my bare neck, I felt the intensity break inside of me, my whole body tingling, trumpets blaring—

  I pulled away. “What’s that?”

  Alex didn’t bother answering and when his lips closed around mine again I didn’t bother thinking about it—until I felt another zing, this one pressed up against my inner thigh, dangerously close to—“That’s my phone,” Alex groaned.

  I was still panting, still feeling the verve of desire as it rocketed through my body when Alex yanked the phone from his pocket and gave it a cursory glance before tossing it aside. I dove for him. “Who was it?” I mumbled in between devouring those incredible lips and flicking my tongue over the salty curve of his neck.

  “Station.”

  “Station?” I paused and he pulled me toward him, rhythm unbroken. “Is it serious?”

  The discarded phone started blaring again, hopping along the sawdust floor as it vibrated wildly. I hated to tear my lips from Alex’s, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Maybe you should check that.”

  Alex stepped back and cocked an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

  “It could be important.”

  He blew out a long sigh that seemed to crush his entire body. “You’re right.”

  He turned his back and answered the phone while I wracked my brain trying to figure out the sexiest way to lounge against the cement cubicle we’d been making out in. Alex turned to me.

  “So, is it serious?” I asked in my best imitation of a Grace Jones–sexy voice.

  “Homicide always is.”

  I opened my mouth, but Alex held up a hand, then brushed a thumb over my kiss-puckered bottom lip. “Don’t think we’re not picking this up again,” he said with a sexy grin.

  My nipples hardened while everything else softened.

  Inappropriate love lesson number thirty-five: Homicide shouldn’t be an aphrodisiac.

  Chapter Seven

  Alex made a beeline for the parking lot, snapping his shoulder holster back on and barking into his cell phone. I hurried behind him, jamming my gun into my shoulder bag, then thinking better of it, and trying to jam it into the waistband of my pants.

  Not a lot of room in the back of my pant
s these days.

  “You want me to drop you off on the way?” Alex asked as we crossed the lot.

  I narrowed my eyes and he rolled his. “Of course not,” he sighed.

  Alex’s SUV had a chic row of cop lights on the dash, which made screaming through intersections and his pole-position driving completely warranted. He loved it. I loved keeping my innards on the inside and not flying through windshields, so I was pressing myself into my seat as far as humanly possible, and praying to the God of Ford that they weren’t cutting corners on seat belts. But with a murder in front of me and the city racing beside me, I didn’t have much time to focus on my fear—or my squashed sex drive.

  When we turned into the Pacific Heights neighborhood, Alex slowed and I was able to dislodge my heart from my throat.

  “Hey,” I said, peering out the window. “Doesn’t this area look familiar?”

  “It’s Pacific Heights, Lawson. You’ve been here a thousand times.”

  “No, I haven’t been here a thousand times,” I said, speaking slowly, eyes still swishing over the darkened sidewalks. “I’ve only been here . . .” I bit my bottom lip, considering, “Ummm . . .”

  Then it hit me.

  “There!” I pointed frantically across the cab, my arm just under Alex’s nose. “Right there!”

  “We’re supposed to go to forty-nine California. That’s thirty-six. It’s not even the right side of the street.”

  “No, that’s where we went when—” My stomach started to quiver. It had been a long time, and I had, unfortunately, seen my share of crime scenes in the years since. But, much like with riding a bike or sex, I guessed you never forget your first time.

  Alex nodded. “The Collector case.”

  I nodded back. “Uh-huh.”

  It was the first crime scene I had ever been to, and I couldn’t help but remember the pristine room, the high ceilings, and the tulips leaning so gracefully over the cut-glass lip of the vase. I also couldn’t help but recall the woman who’d looked as though she had just fallen into a light and peaceful slumber, with her golden-blond hair splayed over the pillow, her pale pink lips pressed together. Under her satin blankets her chest was torn open, her heart removed.